Five Steps
by pagerunner
Summary: Carlos is still having trouble adjusting to Night Vale, but he's coming to terms with it - and his relationship with Cecil - bit by bit. Minor spoilers through "One Year Later."


i.

It's becoming difficult these days to get any work done when Cecil's in the room.

Of course, this being Night Vale, where even simple radio equipment seems to follow its own whims, that can happen at absolutely any moment.

Carlos _tries, _for what it's worth. When he has new data to collate, experiments to run, or another round of unreadable paperwork to fill out for the City Council - all of it produced by an ancient, irritable mimeograph machine, which doesn't surprise Carlos in the least - he turns the radio off. Too many distractions can lead to inaccuracies, after all, and Cecil is a very… _particular… _sort of distraction these days.

Despite Carlos' efforts, though, he'll still hear things unbidden, crackling to him across the airwaves all on their own.

First comes static. It resolves into a low-grade hum, and fragments, out of sequence, of peculiar music. Then that slightly-encouraging, slightly-foreboding voice comes clear. Perhaps Cecil will be reading a public service announcement, or the latest message from the Glow Cloud. Or worse - oh, who is he kidding, it's _so much better, _but problematic just the same - it'll be an advertisement delivered in such seductive tones that Carlos can't think worth a damn about anything but the man who's speaking. It's probably counterproductive, as advertisements go.

He can't bring himself to mind.

Last week, in a fit of _something _like self-restraint, Carlos fumbled for the radio's power button mid-advertisement. It clicked off, he _knew _it did, but the radio only went quiet for 47 seconds before Cecil's voice reappeared with the tail end of a news report: "….and in the aftermath of such carnage, it's worth remembering, dear listeners, why we should never be _idle _about our daydreams. Spontaneous manifestations are always a threat! Dream big, Night Vale, and dream daringly - but if those dreams involve fifty-foot serpents, also do it _carefully." _

Carlos took the hint. He switched off the radio again, this time with trembling fingers. Then for good measure, he opened a window and pitched the radio outside into the scrub.

_That_ was answered by a buzz of disapproval powerful enough to rattle his teeth. Moments later, a hooded figure appeared at the door, holding the radio out to him with one hand - and with the other, a citation for littering.

Carlos, sighing, gave in to the inevitable.

So the radio has stayed. And Cecil's voice remains. And Carlos' self-control is put to the test every single time he speaks. Because even when Cecil's not here - _especially _when he's not here - Carlos thinks of him, and imagines his presence, and what Cecil might say if it was only for Carlos' ears.

That voice is indeed shaping his daydreams - and he can't help but wish that some of them _would _come manifestly true.

….

ii.

"You're getting worry lines, you know," Cecil tells him one day, not unkindly. "Right here."

Cecil, in a moment of daring, taps the space between Carlos' eyebrows. Carlos nearly knocks his papers to the floor. Until that moment, they'd been divided by the cluttered length of his workstation, where Carlos is leaning over the mess of his research. Cecil is sitting on the opposite side with his elbows propped upon the table, looking, as ever, a little besotted.

To be fair to himself - and to distract himself from that gaze - Carlos notes that the research _itself _is not a mess. The data, however, is, and the facts are simply refusing to act like facts. That probably has a lot to do with those worry lines. He sighs and pulls himself fully upright, rubbing self consciously at the spot.

Fleetingly he imagines Cecil's touch still there, or lingering on his jaw instead, or on his chest. Or elsewhere.

"This _town," _he says, to stop from uttering the specifics. "How don't you _all_ have worry lines? And why haven't you all just have keeled over en masse from sheer confusion?"

"Can that happen?"

He sounds so earnest. Carlos smiles crookedly. "Here? Who knows. Although I suppose if it hasn't happened yet…."

"Well, they say nothing's certain." Cecil picks up Carlos' printouts and raps them straight. "Except for mysterious shadow conspiracies and blood tithes."

"_Blood ti-"_

He stops short. Cecil, usually the shy, halting one in these conversations, is actually smirking. All right, then. Taxes might just be normal taxes, maybe….

_But he didn't say that death was certain, either. _

Carlos holds up his hands, conceding the entire conversation. Cecil takes the opportunity to read the top printout. Once he's done, he thoughtfully licks one fingertip so he can turn the page. Carlos suppresses a small sound. Barely. "What are all these? New seismic readouts?"

"Yes," Carlos replies, collecting himself. "They're horrifying. According to the USGS, we should be dust and fragments by now."

"They do seem convinced of that, don't they." He keeps turning the papers. Carlos watches his fingers, oddly hypnotized. "And alarmed."

"But here we are. Shouldn't we have noticed? Or… even if we can't…." He casts about for something. "Animals are supposed to be sensitive to this sort of thing. You haven't seen the local wildlife do anything out of the… well… anything worse than usual?"

"No." Cecil looks thoughtful. "But you know… maybe _that's_ why Koshekh floats. To stay away from the vibrations."

"Huh. That's actually-"

Carlos stops. Cecil raises his eyebrows. The silence stretches out. "Were you about to say that that might make sense?"

"Um." Carlos rubs the back of his neck. "Possibly."

Cecil smiles. He always does, in those moments that Carlos runs headlong into one of Night Vale's oddities and might, just might, have to take it at face value. For _his _part, Carlos wants to demand in exasperation that the world get itself in better order, but he doesn't. Because Cecil is staring at him in a very different way now.

It takes Carlos a second to realize that Cecil's watching his hand tousling the lower layers of his hair. Cecil lowers the papers. Two fingertips rub against his thumb, like he's thinking wistfully of touch, too.

Carlos very slowly goes still.

"Cecil," he begins, and he's not sure where he's going with the sentence, but it turns out it doesn't matter. Cecil's gotten up and has reached across the table, gently touching Carlos' forehead again. Then his fingers _do _slip down, brushing against the unshaven line of his jaw and chin. Carlos breathes in suddenly. Cecil looks like he can't breathe at all.

The question of earthquakes fades from his mind, because Carlos feels shaken at a much deeper level - and dangerously enough, he doesn't want this to stop.

"Worry lines again," Cecil says softly. "Better now."

The touch slips away, but his hand's still curled there in midair, close to Carlos' heart - not quite touching, not yet, but most certainly on the verge.

…

iii.

When the Glow Cloud returns to Night Vale, it rains live frogs.

The first few unfortunates become a squelch upon the sidewalk. After long enough - since there _is_ rain this time, not just animals: real rain, after weeks without - the worst of the mess washes away. Then the frogs splash down into puddles and rivulets to what might be described as safety.

Carlos, determined to get a closer look this time, goes to observe the aftermath. He finds himself in a crowd by the waterfront, where for once, there's actually water. Some are mystified observers; others are playing in the rain, and a few, more worryingly, are still murmuring about _obeying the Glow Cloud._ There's also a crowd of children led, as ever, by Tamika Flynn. She's collecting the stray frogs and ordering her classmates to take them somewhere safe before things dry.

That might not take long. The Cloud has largely receded, leaving only wisps of its radiant form in the sky, and a faint, refreshing drizzle, broken only by the occasional tadpole.

Carlos adjusts his umbrella against another amphibian spatter. He wonders what Cecil would say about the Cloud _this _time. Then he considers his notepad, and does his best to shake off the Cloud's compulsions to _follow_, _follow, never mind the flash flood, of course you won't be swept away…. _

It's there that Cecil finds him.

"Carlos," he says, lingering on the vowels. His hands are jammed into his pockets, in what's either practiced nonchalance or trying to keep his hands from fidgeting. Possibly both. Still, he sounds pleased. "You came."

Carlos returns Cecil's smile. "Ah. Yes. I was meaning to get notes, but-"

He makes a hopeless gesture with his hands, which are unfortunately full. Cecil jumps to attention. "Oh! Let me-"

Cecil tugs his hands free and grasps the umbrella. In the moment of transfer, their fingers brush. Carlos' skin tingles, and Cecil's breath hitches - but before anything else can happen, Carlos lets go, thanks him, and fumbles in one coat pocket for a pen with single-minded determination.

Cecil just watches, which is in fact disconcerting, since now Carlos can't remember what he'd meant to take notes about in the first place.

"What, ah… what brought you out here?" Carlos asks, while he continues fumbling. "Reporting?"

"No. I missed the rain."

Carlos, struck by Cecil's wistfulness, clicks the pen in and out, then stops. He peers out from beneath the umbrella's edge. The sky is oddly lovely: caramel and peach, shot through with violet. There's a faint scent in the breeze, too, that seems familiar. He flips back a few pages in the notebook. "Vanilla, you'd said," he murmurs. "The last time the Cloud was here… you smelled vanilla."

"I barely remember. Isn't that strange?"

It is, although he's almost given up on defining _strange. _Instead, he leans closer to Cecil. He's near enough that he catches another scent - something like soap and cleanliness, and the faintest suggestion of an unfamiliar cologne. It's as if Cecil had dabbed something on before having second, self-conscious thoughts and scrubbing it away. Still, it lingers. _You came out here to find me, _Carlos thinks, breathing it in. _You knew I'd want to see all this, and you came to find me._

_And, _he reminds himself, _you missed the rain._

He nudges Cecil's elbow enough that the umbrella tips back. A faint, misty drizzle begins to settle over them both.

Cecil startles, then relaxes, tilting his face up to the sky.

Carlos can't look away from his profile. It's almost absurd. He came out here to make important scientific observations, and instead he's watching water droplets shimmer on Cecil's glasses, and the soft curve of his lower lip when he sighs. The compulsion to kiss him is almost unbearable. It's as if the Cloud itself is urging him to.

Or maybe Cecil himself is the only thing here truly worth observing.

It's on that thought that he loses grip of the notepad. Cecil's the one to react, gasping with surprise. Carlos just stares, watching as the notepad tumbles off the boardwalk and begins floating away with the receding floodwaters.

"Was that-" Cecil says.

_I didn't even reach for it, _Carlos thinks. _Why? _But he doesn't move. "Nothing important," he replies, feeling a strange twinge at the words. "Doesn't matter. I just…."

The notebook bobs along further. Carlos can see his meticulous, if increasingly frazzled, notes and observations blurring into one big smudge of blue.

For lack of any explanation, he murmurs, "I missed the rain, too."

Cecil nods, and says nothing more.

They stand there together in the vanilla-scented air, watching as one of the last frogs hops onto Carlos' notebook like it's a lilypad, or a tiny ship, to ride it off into destinations unknown.

…

iv.

The good days - that is, the ones with Cecil - are happening more frequently now. But in the days between, when Cecil can't be there and even the radio too often runs silent, Carlos finds himself thinking too much. It might be an occupational hazard, but around here, it feels more hazardous than usual.

Sometimes he can be sanguine about this place. Some days it drives him mad with curiosity - and if he can still be _productive_ about his curiosity, that's one thing. But sometimes he circles into confused and troubled questions, since the things he's seen are so _impossible_, and yet…

Yet they're here, defying every attempt at classification.

Defying their own evidence, and even his own eyes.

One night after the underground city, Carlos studies his own scars as if he doesn't trust in their veracity, either. The marks are still fresh, however, red and stinging, because the wounds hadn't been wide, but they'd been deep. "There's a metaphor in there somewhere," he murmurs to his own reflection. He's standing before the bathroom mirror, fingers splayed across his stomach and pressing at the lines. Something of a giggle escapes his lips.

He's had, admittedly, a bit too much to drink.

Some days he's more hopeful. He pushes back his questions, fears and wonderings, and makes _plans, _plans that are definitely going to happen, damn it, because he wants to wrest back some control from all this. There's no science to it - there's just willpower, and the selfish need for distraction.

There's definitely no acknowledgement that he let the science go floating down the river days ago now, and maybe that's why he's feeling off-balance.

One day his planning lands him at the drugstore, with the most basic, primal idea of all in mind. That's its own brand of madness, really: imagining Cecil with him like _that_ while he's out and about in public. His ability to maintain a poker face about anything seems to have vanished when he crossed the city limits.

As it is, he finds the Family Planning aisle - off-target though the euphemism might be in his case - and tries not to wonder about a few items on the periphery that he simply can't identify. He has enough trouble making his selections under the baleful stare of an angel, not to mention the little old woman nearby buying bunion splints, who's grinning like she's cheering him on.

_Small-town life, _he thinks, a bit hysterically. _With angels._

He doesn't get as far as calling Cecil that night. He just stashes his purchases in the bedside table, feeling weirdly furtive about it, and shuts the drawer harder than necessary. Then he fails at trying to sleep. He just keeps _thinking, _and can't stop.

His radio clicks on sometime around 3 a.m.

Nothing should be on at this hour - nothing but prerecorded messages and that inexplicably odd late-night music loop - but it's Cecil's voice murmuring to him through the dark. Cecil's voice, sounding so damned tempting. Carlos squeezes his eyes shut, one arm flung over his face. It doesn't help; he can still hear it, and he can practically _see _Cecil as the man speaks. Every detail. The way he'll gesture mid-sentence, the little quirk to his mouth on certain words, the way he -

There's a knock on the door. Carlos nearly jumps out of his skin.

_That's probably even possible in Night Vale, _he thinks raggedly. He edges through the dark apartment toward the door. _Disincorporation. Skins walking around autonomously. Stranger things have happened._

_Much stranger things…_

He's at the door, reaching for the knob. His whole body's still aching with the force of his errant thoughts and he can't be certain what he's about to find, but some bone-deep part of him _suspects…._

And of course it's Cecil on the other side.

"Carlos," Cecil says, over the creak of the door. His voice is overcharged with nervous pleasure just to say the name, even though it's in the middle of the night, and Carlos, barely dressed except for boxers and a battered t-shirt, is trembling like a leaf. "I knew you'd be awake."

_How? _Carlos wants to demand. _How could you know? _But what he says aloud is something different, tangled and too intense.

"Cecil. God. I was just thinking about - I was hearing…." He points back toward the radio, but it's off again somehow. He wants to throw something at it. "I can't make this make sense."

"Carlos, I-"

"Wait."

He holds up one hand. Cecil, silent, waits him out.

"I'm… struggling with something. Something you said on the radio. And yes, I know, you say a lot on the radio, but this-"

He's pacing, without really planning to, back and forth before the door.

"That report about daydreams, Cecil. You remember that one? The one about _spontaneous manifestations?"_

Cecil nods slowly. Carlos makes a flustered gesture; one hand tangles in his hair.

"I've realized I keep thinking about you… and then things _happen, _Cecil. Like… the radio keeps turning itself on, and you'll show up just when I'm missing you, and tonight - tonight, when I just want to _lose_ myself in you, you're…." His voice breaks. "But I can't even trust it, Cecil. I can't trust that it's really you. Here. At three o'clock at the fucking morning. That anything's… _real._"

Cecil hasn't come inside yet. He's still standing at the threshold. His eyes are wide, and his hands are trembling, too. Even as stressed as he is, Carlos catalogs every visual detail, trying to make himself believe in it, wondering if he should.

"My concentration's shot. I can't reconcile the facts. And then there's you and your stories about people's dreams running wild through town and…. God, Cecil, is that what this is?" His hand slides down, covering half his face. The whole world looks sliced through. "And what kind of a scientist am I if I can't even trust my own observations?"

Cecil finally does move forward. One step. Two.

"Sometimes it's not about sense or science, Carlos," he says. It's in that tone that starts to slip in when Cecil says something eerily perceptive. "It's not about what your eyes and ears are telling you. It's about_ what is."_

"Ah. Truth, then?" He laughs ruefully, lowering his hand. "_That's_ for the philosophers…."

"And for me," Cecil says softly.

Carlos stares. Cecil takes three more steps and stops inches away. He _looks _so real. So present. So damnably close. Carlos reaches out, wondering if he'll find air or phantoms or one of those fifty-foot serpents (and what _had _happened to them? Is this the time to wonder?). Instead, he finds Cecil's warm hand grasping his. Carlos swallows hard.

"You're not dreaming, Carlos." There's a little, strained laugh. "Not unless I am."

"Cecil…."

"I'm here."

Carlos has no idea if Cecil actually says that, or if he just needs to hear it. Either way, he takes it all in - and then he closes his eyes. Operating on instinct instead of logic, he simply pulls Cecil to him and gives in.

For whatever it's worth, the kiss and what comes after is the most real thing he's ever felt.

…

v.

They lie together in the quiet afterwards, with Carlos curled up behind Cecil, still holding on.

_It's not about sense or science, _Cecil had said. _It's about what is. _And maybe, he thinks, Cecil's right this time. It's not about data points or theories or confirmable facts. It's about these little ephemeral details - like the simple, skin-tingling pleasure of being able to hold Cecil like this. To kiss the back of Cecil's neck, and feel him respond.

He tastes like salt and sweat, and the heat of the desert wind.

Things don't feel _resolved, _exactly. This isn't that sort of town. Tomorrow they might wake up to find that there's trouble at the dog park, or that the trees are melting; or Cecil will find a whole new reason to be peeved at Steve Carlsberg, and Carlos will get into another debate with his inexplicably two-headed landlord, who can _really _get going where arguments are concerned. Everything just might begin all over again. For now, though, the tension in his chest has unwound. Mostly. Carlos keeps touching Cecil softly when the remaining pangs hit him, as if seeking reassurance that he's still there.

If anyone here can reassure him, after all, it's Cecil.

So: "Tell me a story," he murmurs into Cecil's hair.

Cecil laughs. It feels like he's about to ask a question - _what do you mean? _or _what sort of story? _or even _it's past four by now, Carlos; don't you think we should sleep? _But he turns in Cecil's arms so he can lie flat on his back. His eyes go distant, like he's thinking. Listening for something. Deciding.

Then a smile touches the corners of his mouth, and the radio voice comes back - quietly, since it's only meant for an audience of one this time, but rich and sure just the same.

Carlos watches him the whole way through. He lets one hand stay on Cecil's chest so he can feel it as much as hear. For the entirety of the recitation, he doesn't say a word; he just drinks it all in, still tasting strangeness in the air, but feeling… at peace with it, for now. He can almost believe it all in a moment like this, here with Cecil, past the verge.

And even after Cecil's done and drifting off to sleep, Carlos stays awake, eyes closed and mind open, just listening to him breathe.


End file.
